Dead Air Church: All Saints Day

The following is a reprint from All Saints Day, 2007. I decided to reprint it when I realized I couldn't improve on it.




The Calling of Saint Matthew by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome. (1599-1600)

~*~

I have always loved the look of stunned surprise on Matthew's face: Who, me?

And the guy next to him looks just as surprised: Who, him?

The tax collector???

Matthew, the tax collector, is in a dark room, with a bunch of men involved in a filthy, materialistic act: counting money. It's his job. The tax collector was more like a loan shark in those days, and worthy of resentment, if not outright hatred. He is sitting in a room with lowlifes, in short, men like himself. He is scrambling for his livelihood, one bright, shiny coin at a time. One of his compatriots is focused totally on the money, and ignores the light from the door; the only light in the painting.

He is being singled out. But the One singling him out is not, this time, the main subject of the painting. Matthew is, as he points to himself, the accompanying disbelief and shock clearly written on his face.

Which leads us to ask the obvious question: Why has He chosen him? Frankly, it makes no sense.

The painting has stayed with me throughout my life, since I first saw it. It has robbed me of sleep as often as it has comforted me. I have felt the echo: Who, me?

If you feel that a door was opened, light suddenly shown on you, and God Himself pointed to you, even for a millisecond, then you know the feeling. You know the feeling of St Matthew. You point at yourself, your shock eclipsing all else in that stretched-out, single moment in time: Why am I being singled out? It makes no sense.

And the people next to you, can be as incredulous as the man sitting next to Matthew: Who, her?

This painting was brought to us by a common brawler, in fact, a murderer. Caravaggio was not a nice guy:

An early published notice on him, dating from 1604 and describing his lifestyle some three years previously, tells how "after a fortnight's work he will swagger about for a month or two with a sword at his side and a servant following him, from one ball-court to the next, ever ready to engage in a fight or an argument, so that it is most awkward to get along with him."[1] In 1606 he killed a young man in a brawl and fled from Rome with a price on his head. In Malta in 1608 he was involved in another brawl, and yet another in Naples in 1609, possibly a deliberate attempt on his life by unidentified enemies. By the next year, after a career of little more than a decade, he was dead.

I like to think the sentiment is his, the feeling of having been called and not having a clue why: Does He know who I really am? Yes, He knows. That's why you've been called, because He knows.

For several hundreds of years now, we've been getting a twisted message, and it needs to be put right. Those of us who responded to this phenomenon (the bright light shining on us, the finger of God pointing and singling us out), believed we were not good enough. Our calling must be a mistake, or a delusion. For example, look at all of these people who claim to speak to God personally; they get all kinds of messages, and spelled out in E-N-G-L-I-S-H, too. Why can't I have some of that? If you've asked, you know that no answer is forthcoming, it is something you have to find the answer to, like a complicated word-problem. It is your life's work, to discover why. But first, you must believe. You must overcome the shock and the disbelief, the finger Matthew raises to his chest. All around him, the disbelief, and all around us, the same disbelief.

You may hear, for instance, that you are not truly called if you are a woman. (Lookit that room, all guys.) You may hear that you are not truly called if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered. You may hear that if you live in the wrong country, pay taxes to the wrong emperor, live under another creed or ideology, then no, it doesn't apply to you, and you must have been mistaken. The secular and nonspiritual world reduces the painting to The Baroque Period, and doesn't appreciate that some of us feel punched in the gut by it. Well, they say, it's because it's Art.

No, it is because the brawler, who felt unworthy, put a spiritual truth in the painting, for US, who also feel unworthy. He painted that for us. It was a tremendous gift, from another who was chosen, and didn't understand why. He is saying: this is what I can do, I can illustrate this feeling in my heart, with color and shadow. Now, you must go forth and do whatever YOU can do. Whoever and whatever you are, you must spread the Truth to all nations.

If you aren't sure what that Truth is, then you need to find it. You are charged with the truth, which will set you free.

And on All Saints Day, the day the Church formally honors saints, I have to remember that. ALL SAINTS: Tax collectors, publicans and sinners. I have to remember the people the Church has deliberately closed out. I have to remember all of the people who hate me. I have to remember everyone in the world, made in God's image, who have felt the strength of love and redemption in their life.

It's hard to do. I'd rather just count my money in the dark and be left alone.

But after you are singled out, it's impossible to forget, regardless of what comes after. That is what the eyes, the expression of Matthew tell us. It's not about you, anymore. Come, He said, I will make you fishers of men.

Have a great All Saints Day.

Dead Air Church - Jones Gap

For All Saints Day, I went into the woods to pray this year.

Below, one of my favorite places in the universe, Jones Gap State Park here in upstate South Carolina. This park is right on the border of North and South Carolina. These photos are from the Rim of The Gap trail, which runs parallel to the Middle Saluda River.

The further back you go, the quieter, the more beautiful. All you can hear is the river and your footsteps in the leaves.

And a very happy All Souls Day to you all.

~*~

All Souls Day - Day of the Dead

Ironically, sitting here yesterday typing and pontificating (root word: pontiff, haha) nearly made me late for All Saints Day Mass. And so there I go, scurrying in during the homily, duly splashing myself with holy water while wondering (as I always do) why the Mexicans and Vietnamese are always sitting in the back. You should go up front! You are just as entitled to be here as the white people! Alas, I don't know any language but English, so I can't say this to them. I usually express this sentiment simply by sitting with them, smiling at their babies and sharing tissues when one spits up. They are probably thinking, poor confused old hippie, doesn't know where the white people sit.

The reading is from spooky old Revelations 7, and reminds us:

After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude which no man could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, "Salvation belongs to our God who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb!" And all the angels stood round the throne and round the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying, "Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God for ever and ever! Amen."

Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, clothed in white robes, and whence have they come?" I said to him, "Sir, you know." And he said to me, "These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

I thought about those who have had the greatest tribulations, those who have endured war, famine, illness and hardship; those who have been abandoned. I was suddenly overwhelmed, humbled and honored to be in the presence of the saints.

~*~



Old joke: The most dangerous place in the world to be is in a Catholic parish parking lot after Mass; the second most dangerous place would be the closest bakery. (I guess that's a dated joke now, and it should be re-written to say, the closest Starbucks.) I hate gridlock of any kind, so I therefore hang back and usually wait until the place clears out, and pay close attention to details... for instance, my priest is picky about his nomenclature and the song sheet informs us that today is THE SOLEMNITY of All Saints. So is it still THE FEAST of All Saints? What, one wonders, is the difference between Solemnity and Feast?

The calendar is a traditional Christian method of organizing a liturgical year on the level of days by associating each day with one or more saints, and referring to the day as that saint's feast day. The system arose from the very early Christian custom of annual commemoration of martyrs on the dates of their deaths (Dies Mortis, day of death, opposite of Dies Natalis). As the number of recognized saints increased during Late Antiquity and roughly the first half of the Middle Ages, eventually every day of the year had at least one saint who was commemorated on that date.

The day a child was born determined who their patron saint was, hence, the derivation of "birthday."

"Various feast days will be "ranked" with various levels of importance. In the Roman Catholic Church, from most to least importance, these are solemnities, feasts, memorials, and optional memorials. In the Church of England, they are Principal Feasts and Principal Holy Days, Festivals, Lesser Festivals, and Commemorations.

You could go crazy trying to keep it all straight, and Lord Knows, I once tried mighty hard.

I am now lucky to make it to the Majors.

~*~

Some years ago, I thought donating blood at Halloween was a fun idea, especially since they also passed out cute Vampire T-shirts to all participants (blood, vampires, Halloween, get it??). At some point, this habit morphed (like the holiday itself?) into giving blood for All Saints Day instead, and I made it part of my spiritual repetition. Blood was shed on my account, I guess I can shed a little bit in return.

And so, I made my way to the local Bloodmobile, which really does bother me. I don't like giving blood in a VEHICLE. I know, it's a fancy schmancy vehicle and everything, but it is still a VEHICLE that could, you know, MOVE at any moment. The humongous electrical generator makes all manner of roaring noises, and as my blood pumps out of my arm, I am left wondering: Did they remember to put the emergency brake on?

First, the Blood Connection lady takes me into a little cubicle to ask me personal sexual questions, extending all the way back to 1977 (!). My favorite of these is: Have you had sex with a man who has had sex with another man?

And I really want to answer: Have you ever asked a man that question, before you have sex with him? "Oh, hey, by the way, have you had sex with another man?" Right.

In other words, the proper and true answer: How the hell am I supposed to know? But if you say that, expressing doubts, they will refuse you and bounce you out. So, everyone just replies in the heterosexist manner in which you are expected to answer: No.

Even though the battery of sexual questions is harrowing, and they add a few more bizarre twists and turns every year or so (I have to admit, I enjoy sniffing "I'm a VEGETARIAN!" to all of their Mad Cow Disease questions), the thoroughly bored demeanor of the interrogator always gets me through. She doesn't care; she's heard it all before, and then some.

The last question is the most interesting: Are you giving blood just so you can be tested for HIV?

Does anyone really do that?

~*~

Coming up in Day of the Dead, Part Two: Ron Paul in Greenville, with original photos!

----------------
Listening to: Howlin' Wolf - Smokestack Lightnin'
via FoxyTunes

All Saints Day

The Calling of Saint Matthew by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome. (1599-1600)

~*~

I have always loved the look of stunned surprise on Matthew's face: Who, me?

And the guy next to him looks just as surprised: Who, him?

The tax collector???

Matthew, the tax collector, is in a dark room, with a bunch of men involved in a filthy, materialistic act: counting money. It's his job. The tax collector was more like a loan shark in those days, and worthy of resentment, if not outright hatred. He is sitting in a room with lowlifes, in short, men like himself. He is scrambling for his livelihood, one bright, shiny coin at a time. One of his compatriots is focused totally on the money, and ignores the light from the door; the only light in the painting.

He is being singled out. But the One singling him out is not, this time, the main subject of the painting. Matthew is, as he points to himself, the accompanying disbelief and shock clearly written on his face.

Which leads us to ask the obvious question: Why has He chosen him? Frankly, it makes no sense.

The painting has stayed with me throughout my life, since I first saw it. It has robbed me of sleep as often as it has comforted me. I have felt the echo: Who, me?

If you feel that a door was opened, light suddenly shown on you, and God Himself pointed to you, even for a millisecond, then you know the feeling. You know the feeling of St Matthew. You point at yourself, your shock eclipsing all else in that stretched-out, single moment in time: Why am I being singled out? It makes no sense.

And the people next to you, can be as incredulous as the man sitting next to Matthew: Who, her?

This painting was brought to us by a common brawler, in fact, a murderer. Caravaggio was not a nice guy:

An early published notice on him, dating from 1604 and describing his lifestyle some three years previously, tells how "after a fortnight's work he will swagger about for a month or two with a sword at his side and a servant following him, from one ball-court to the next, ever ready to engage in a fight or an argument, so that it is most awkward to get along with him."[1] In 1606 he killed a young man in a brawl and fled from Rome with a price on his head. In Malta in 1608 he was involved in another brawl, and yet another in Naples in 1609, possibly a deliberate attempt on his life by unidentified enemies. By the next year, after a career of little more than a decade, he was dead.

I like to think the sentiment is his, the feeling of having been called and not having a clue why: Does He know who I really am? Yes, He knows. That's why you've been called, because He knows.

For several hundreds of years now, we've been getting a twisted message, and it needs to be put right. Those of us who responded to this phenomenon (the bright light shining on us, the finger of God pointing and singling us out), believed we were not good enough. Our calling must be a mistake, or a delusion. For example, look at all of these people who claim to speak to God personally; they get all kinds of messages, and spelled out in E-N-G-L-I-S-H, too. Why can't I have some of that? If you've asked, you know that no answer is forthcoming, it is something you have to find the answer to, like a complicated word-problem. It is your life's work, to discover why. But first, you must believe. You must overcome the shock and the disbelief, the finger Matthew raises to his chest. All around him, the disbelief, and all around us, the same disbelief.

You may hear, for instance, that you are not truly called if you are a woman. (Lookit that room, all guys.) You may hear that you are not truly called if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered. You may hear that if you live in the wrong country, pay taxes to the wrong emperor, live under another creed or ideology, then no, it doesn't apply to you, and you must have been mistaken. The secular and nonspiritual world reduces the painting to The Baroque Period, and doesn't appreciate that some of us feel punched in the gut by it. Well, they say, it's because it's Art.

No, it is because the brawler, who felt unworthy, put a spiritual truth in the painting, for US, who also feel unworthy. He painted that for us. It was a tremendous gift, from another who was chosen, and didn't understand why. He is saying: this is what I can do, I can illustrate this feeling in my heart, with color and shadow. Now, you must go forth and do whatever YOU can do. Whoever and whatever you are, you must spread the Truth to all nations.

If you aren't sure what that Truth is, then you need to find it. You are charged with the truth, which will set you free.

And on All Saints Day, the day the Church formally honors saints, I have to remember that. ALL SAINTS: Tax collectors, publicans and sinners. I have to remember the people the Church has deliberately closed out. I have to remember all of the people who hate me. I have to remember everyone in the world, made in God's image, who have felt the strength of love and redemption in their life.

It's hard to do. I'd rather just count my money in the dark and be left alone.

But after you are singled out, it's impossible to forget, regardless of what comes after. That is what the eyes, the expression of Matthew tell us. It's not about you, anymore. Come, He said, I will make you fishers of men.

Have a great All Saints Day.

----------------
Listening to: Bob Marley & the Wailers - Redemption Song
via FoxyTunes

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I'm not sure why I started blogging. I know I unequivocally decided to blog on Postmenopausal Day, but I'm not sure why. Am I wasting my time? Probably. All I have to show for my blogging are some nasty emails from Bob Jones University, an increased knowledge of html (I think I'm up to the average 14-year-old, by now, at least) and a handful of great New York expressions from BelleDame (which really impress my friends). Does anyone read this? Well, Sitemeter says a few dedicated folks actually do, so I charge onward, boring the masses (okay, a tiny fraction of the masses) with my postmenopausal, post-hippie existence.

Thank the Lord for Halloween, or should I say, thank the pagans! (Thanks, yall!) Currently sipping some yummy, decadent Fresh Market Pumpkin Spice coffee, which I am aware is not bird-friendly, free trade OR organic, and so, Catholic Guilt and Shame (herein known as CGAS) accompanies my warm and tingly Halloween-Autumn vibe. (Alas, there is no escape from Searching and Fearless Moral Inventories, whether we ever really wanted them or not.) My TV is tuned to the lovely Adrienne Barbeau, ex-wife of John Carpenter, who bravely battles The Fog, and I am comforting myself that at least I am not in a horror movie. Although if Dubya continues on his present course and destroys the world as we know it, we very well may be, so this is a form of meditation and preparation. Horror movies explain what NOT to do in life, and this one reminds us to stay out of the fog.

Speaking of fog, I have several foggy things on the agenda for the week, so stay tuned, fight fans.

~*~

There I was yesterday, re-stocking amino acids and having an existential dilemma about blogging (see above), when Ron Paul Guy (herein known as RPG) approaches me to ask if I am going to the gay movie. Gay movie? BOYS IN THE BAND? BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN? THE CHILDREN'S HOUR? (*nods to Belledame*)

RPG just rolled his eyes, as he usually does when I don't know what is happening. NO, the GAY MOVIE, titled For the Bible tells me so. It's the Soulforce gang again! There is going to be a counter-demonstration!

A counter-demonstration of a MOVIE? Oh, God. I refer everyone to the videos I posted on Tuesday. I was morally exempt (I told myself) from the April Soulforce demo because I was already scheduled to work. However, I will not be scheduled to work during this movie. Oh, God. Well, I said, under the laser-beam glare of RPG's eyes, I guess I will go.

And then, late last night, sitting with local Deadheads on their shadowy terrace, beautifully lit by green light, crystal wind-chimes that spin rainbows in the dark, and candles that illuminated their jungle-like maze of plants, I said, again: Yes! I will go and blog about it! They were very supportive. Deadheads rule, always.

And now, I am committed to doing this. And frankly, I don't want to. It's the kind of thing that if I weren't blogging, I'd find a reason to put off. But now, I feel I have to Witness to the Truth, and all like that.

RPG enthusiastically agreed, and then informed me I had to go see Ron Paul on November 1, which also has the distinction of being All Saints Day. Since I pointedly missed my last Holy Day of Obligation (see CGAS above), I have to go this time. (I'm also gonna try to make All Souls Day, which many of you know as Day of the Dead.) I guess Ron Paul can fit into my All Saints Day itinerary. I am not voting for him and there is plenty about his politics that I intensely dislike, but I was so impressed by how he shook up the last somnambulist GOP debate with some righteous fury over Iraq, I figure I can mosey on over to Pleasantburg Drive and tell him so. I'm also curious about who else might show up. More demonstrators? Positive? Negative?

And then there is the gay movie.

Leading the counter-demonstrators will likely be Badass Preacher Man (herein known as BPM). He is, in fact, in one of the aformentioned videos I posted. He knows me through my work, and he likes me. Yeah, I know what you are thinking. How could this man who preaches like a lunatic-on-cocaine actually like me? I dunno, but I can honestly say, if I had never seen him preach, I'd unreservedly like him, too. BPM literally has two personalities: a sweet, kindly southern gentleman and then, well, see for yourself. I've always known this, since he's been a local Religious-Right fixture for years, and has been prominently featured on numerous national newsclips as well, feverishly preaching against sodomy. And yet, he has been very sweet and friendly to me.

If I show up at the gay movie, will that change? I don't mind telling you, that makes me nervous. I don't know why, but it does. I would like to keep business, religion and politics all separate, but as you all know, life doesn't usually work that way, does it? Perhaps I like him more than I am willing to admit. Hopefully, his fondness for me will carry the day, too?

And what will happen if it does? I can tell you what: a day or so later, when BPM has calmed down, he is likely to ask me why I was there. He knows I am married, a grandmother even. He has no idea.

Should I tell? We are back to the bisexuality question. I am fixin to have a 20th wedding anniversary this month. Bisexuality doesn't even seem relevant, but of course, it is; it is who I am. Should I be honest? I have never told anyone who might be hostile; I've never had to. This will be a first. And even though most old-school southerners would never ask, BPM will ask, since he does like me and will consider my soul in jeopardy.

It's a hairy situation. What's a mother to do?

Of course, I know. At this stage of my life, I will have to tell the truth. I no longer have the wherewithal, the temerity, the ability, to lie, to cover-up, to equivocate.

And then, what happens?

Stay tuned, fight fans. A fun All Saints Week awaits us.

----------------
Listening to: Social Distortion - Don't Drag Me Down
via FoxyTunes